


We Could Be a Leyendecker Painting, My Love

by mugsandpugs



Series: A Matched Set [3]
Category: X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: (not as dark as the rest of the series but still dark), Bittersweet Ending, Codependency, Dark, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, F/M, Penis In Vagina Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Shower Sex, Sibling Incest, Twincest, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Unsafe Sex, abuse recovery (kind of), background Lorna Dane, past parent/child rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-04
Updated: 2019-05-04
Packaged: 2020-01-15 21:04:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18507061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mugsandpugs/pseuds/mugsandpugs
Summary: For that one person who wanted a happy ending for this unhappy series... I tried my best.Lorna discovers what her father is doing to her half-siblings and steps in, taking the twins to live with her. Pietro and Wanda find that recovery isn't so simple as all that.





	We Could Be a Leyendecker Painting, My Love

**Author's Note:**

> As always, mind the warnings, mind the tags. If you somehow stumbled here by accident: THIS IS A DARK, INCESTUOUS SERIES WHEREIN EVERYBODY IS ABUSIVE AND NOBODY IS HEALTHY. DO NOT SAY YOU WEREN’T WARNED BECAUSE YOU WERE, REPEATEDLY AND PROFUSELY. You had to click through a number of pages to reach this point, so now you're proceeding with informed consent.
> 
> Title referring to [this painting,](http://www.scottmcd.net/artanalysis/?p=30) which always gave me a Maxi-vibe.

Honestly, Pietro should have expected the divider wall between the halves of their bedroom to open when it did. He’d felt it in the air at the breakfast table, in the silence between sentences, in the glances his sister did not shoot his way. He felt it now in the hollow of his heart.

“Ooh, we shouldn’t,” was the only protest he made, as his sister stood like a statue at the foot of his new bed, looking down at him with unreadable eyes that looked, in this dim light, black as marbles in her head. “Not a great plan, sis.”

She pressed a knee to the bed, a slight weight that had him rolling, if only a centimeter, closer to her. “Tell me no,” she said in her warm, deep voice.

Pietro shut his eyes tight. He’d never in his life felt like he could tell his twin no. He’d sooner rob a bank than deny her something they couldn’t afford. This, in comparison, was nothing.

“You feel it too, huh? All… hollowed out and empty.” He winced as he considered the literal application of his words — there was more than one way to fill an emptiness, as he well knew — but she didn’t seem to notice.

Wanda bit her lip and nodded. “He’s… I hate him so much,” she said.

It was not a complete sentence. Pietro heard the ‘but I miss him, too,’ loud and clear. He sighed.

He would not agree with her. He would not encourage it, even though he knew exactly what she meant.

She pressed down over him, her long hands cool on his cheeks as she stroked his hair back and studied his face. Her thumb brushed his lower lip, and he turned his head to kiss it.

“Your hands are so cold, sis,” Pietro mumbled, and reached to touch one, holding it in his own. “Are _you_ cold?”

She nodded, so he put his hands on her shoulders, lightly pushing her up enough to get space between her body and the blanket, which he then held open in invitation. After a moment’s consideration, she slipped underneath it with him.

It was dark in this cocoon for two. Wanda’s frizzy hair tickled Pietro’s arm. Cramped, but that was to be expected, as they were tall people, and the beds were small. Twin-sized, apparently, but actual twins didn’t fit so well. They lay side by side like that, as they must have once done in the womb. It was an odd thought.

“Did you want something in particular?” Pietro asked. They didn’t exactly hand out ‘How to Fuck Your Sister 101’ pamphlets in health class, after all.

“Hold me,” Wanda replied immediately, and Pietro could have sagged in relief.

“That, I can do.”

He opened his arms, and she made a home in them. Truth be told, it wasn’t all that different from when they’d been homeless, sleeping together in stolen cars, creeping closer and closer in the night as their aching bones grew colder. It wasn’t normal sibling behavior, no, but it was on the right track, for them.

The illusion was shattered when Wanda kissed him. Her mouth on his, full and plush — no man Pietro had ever kissed had lips like Wanda’s. Was that even true? Plenty of men had full lips and baby-soft faces. Some men smelled sweet. In the dark like this, did the difference really matter? He supposed it only mattered if he let it.

He’d been Wanda’s before he’d ever belonged to anyone else. It was she who he owed his loyalty to. Pietro crushed a hand to the back of his twin’s head and kissed her senseless, pouring every ounce of himself into pleasing her, teasing her. She had far less experience in kissing than he, and it was a delight showing her all the ways one person could please another with nothing but mouths.

She deserved this. She deserved to be held and caressed by someone who loved her more than anything else in the world. Pietro could be that for her. He could be that for her forever, if that was what she wanted.

He sucked sweetly on the tip of her tongue, and she sighed, squirming into his hold. She reached for his free hand and guided it to her waist, so he obligingly took it, fitting naturally into the curve between rib and hip. His thumb rolled gentle circles over soft skin.

“What do you want, sis?” he asked again, when Wanda pulled away for breath.

“I don’t know,” she mumbled, sounding shy.

Pietro smiled and nosed into her neck. “I think you _do_ know,” he purred. Her shiver was gratifying. He worked a hand up her shirt, palming her soft tummy. “Tell me…”

She shook her head no, but reached for his hand, pushing it up higher. Pietro could take a hint. The feeling of a breast in his palm was unusual, but not unpleasant. He rolled it, stroked it. Found a nipple with his thumb. “How do I make you feel good?” he asked. “What feels good to you?”

He did as she demonstrated, her hand guiding his. She gripped her breast tighter than he would have thought comfortable and tugged her own nipple. He imitated until she gasped; her legs falling open.

“Oh?” he asked, intrigued. Maybe a little smug. “It’s that good?”

She said nothing, so he only kissed the tip of her nose. “Not gonna do anything you don’t want, sis,” he promised. It was so good, this. She allowed him to be soft. Allowed him to be kind. Two things he almost never permitted himself to be. In this space, the world was safe for them both.

Her hands touched his chest, and he felt a pang of surprise. He hadn’t expected her to want to touch him back. He allowed her this; allowed her to explore. When she pressed a kiss to his sternum, he smiled. “Oh, honey.”

The endearment just slipped out, affectionate as anything, and she burrowed close. He felt the brush of something wiry against his leg —  hair.

“You aren’t wearing panties, are you?” he asked, and Wanda shook her head no.

Oh. Just the t-shirt, then. Pietro swallowed, throat dry.

When he stroked a hand down her side, over the curve of her hip, down and down until he found her knee, she didn’t resist as he slipped a hand under it, as he brought her leg up and over his waist, pressing against the core of her. She did, however, go a little still.

“Nothing you don’t want,” he promised, kissing her eyelids; one and then the other. “I’m not like him. Never, sis.”

That’s what this was about, really, wasn’t it? Their father had raped her, even if she would never think of it in those terms. Pietro had not been raped, he didn’t think. In some ways, what Pietro had done was far worse: He had become the monster.

Maybe that was the reason he needed to be so soft now. Maybe he was serving his own needs, his agenda, instead of Wanda’s. He needed to prove to her, and to himself, that he was not like the man who had created them. That he was still capable of goodness, of kindness.

“Can I touch you?” Pietro asked as the silence stretched. A silly question. He was already touching her; one hand on her breast, a hand on her knee, forehead to forehead. Her breath stirred his hair. He was curious to see if she was wet; wanted to know what that might feel like; but he was good. He was good! He wouldn’t check without permission. “You know. Between your legs?”

Her nod was a tiny thing. It was half curiosity that drove him, sliding a hand down the pooch of her belly. The nest of her pubic hair was dense. It was odd not to feel a cock stiffening under his hand as he pet it, but how different could it be, really? All babies started out the same, after all. Ovaries became testicles. Clitori became penises. Everyone was made of the same starstuff, weren’t they?

Men weren’t so slippery between their thighs, though. She felt slick to the touch, even as he cupped her in his palm.

“Did you know…” Pietro said, feeling as though one of his manic babblings was coming on. “Did you know vaginal lubrication comes from your blood? Bloodflow increases when you’re turned on, and liquid seeps through the thin skin of your labia. It’s mostly just water, but the proteins makes it stretchy…”

Good Lord. Why didn’t anybody ever shut him up when he got like this? He could actively feel himself being annoying.

Thank the stars for Wanda. She only giggled and touched the side of his face, then kissed him, her short dark hair tickling his face. She was bolder this time, tasting him, nipping at his lip while his fingers parted her labia and slicked the silky skin inside. It wasn’t difficult to find her clit; the tiny organ was hard and throbbing, and he rolled it under his thumb until she cried out.

“Shh…” he cautioned, cupping the back of her head. He remembered how loud she’d been when their father… No, he didn’t want to think about that. Never again. He wanted this, wanted what they were doing now, to erase that completely. “Shh. Lorna might hear us.”

Wanda nodded and pressed her chest against his, biting down on the shoulder-seam of his t-shirt. Pietro slid his fingers through her hair, finding it slightly damp with sweat. It was a little warm under the blanket.

She situated herself on top of him, spreading her legs, moving his hand for him so that the heel of his palm ground against her cunt, and then she rolled her hips, humping against it. At the feel of her hipbone inadvertently grinding his cock, Pietro hissed a breath.

“Does that hurt?” Wanda asked, stilling, and he shook his head no.

“You’re okay.”

She resumed her motions, and his hand quickly became slick from how wet she was. Pietro didn’t know what to do aside from hold her; kiss her neck and ear and anywhere else he could reach. Maybe that was okay. Maybe she needed to be the one in control, after what had happened to her.

Friction had his cock waking up in his boxers. Apparently it didn’t care that the hip sliding against it was female, either. He tried to ignore it, tried to hold his palm flat and firm so Wanda could get the most out of it.

“Want my fingers in you?” he asked. That was supposed to feel good, right? She’d wanted him to make her feel less empty…

“Want _you_ in me.”

She wanted… Oh. “I don’t have any condoms.”

“Can’t you get those pills papa gave me?”

Of course their father was dragged into their safe bed, eventually.. Pietro tried not to be bitter about the reminder, but why did the man always have to stand in between them, ruining all the good things they had?

“The morning-after pill made you sick, remember? You puked and felt like shit all day. What if I just keep rubbing you til you come?”

He was just trying to be a good brother, damn it. She didn’t have to sulk so tangibly. Although, a ‘good’ brother probably wouldn’t be fingering his traumatized sister in the first place. Damn. Could he do nothing right?

“I want you to fuck me. I want you to fuck _him_ out of me.”

And there it was. Pietro felt any erection he’d begun die on the spot. “I can’t, sis. I… Don’t…”

What, had he expected this not to be fucked up? Casual, happy incest? Trauma-free sibling fuckery? There was no putting down their baggage, was there?

“Oh.” Her voice went chilly. “Okay.”

“Wanda, wait—”

She was already pulling away from him. Dragging his hand out from between her legs, pulling her knee off his hip, fighting with the blankets. They were tangled in the fabric, and Pietro realized too late that it was his shoulder keeping them trapped inside.

“Sis—” Too late. She blasted the fabric with magic, and it caught fire instantly. “Fuck.”

As he beat out the flames, surging to open the window before the smoke detector went off, Wanda stormed away; not to her half of their room, but to the bathroom, and slammed the door behind herself.

Damn, damn it all to hell. Pietro switched the table lamp on to ensure he’d beat out all the scarlet sparks. There was no hiding this from Lorna, and no explaining it either, unless he switched the blankets on their beds and said Wanda had had a nightmare and an episode. Damn, the cheap polyester stank, too.

He grumbled and grouched all the while he made the switch. Her half of the bedroom in their half-sibling's tiny house was so much messier than his. They’d only been there for two fucking days, and already she had stacks of library books and piles of Lorna’s borrowed clothes scattered all around. She accumulated mess like it was a nesting instinct.

The blanket was an easier problem to solve than his sister herself. He couldn’t bear it; couldn’t stand this new life with her angry at him. Maybe it was misplaced anger. Maybe it was easier, safer to be mad at Pietro than it was to be mad at their dad. There were probably a million psychological reasons to the way the twins felt now, and it didn’t help either of them jack shit. Who cared about the why, anyway? Not Pietro!

The more he thought about it, the more annoyed he became. Wanda couldn’t just walk out on him! He needed her. She was the only thing still keeping him sane. The only one who had any idea what he’d been through. Lorna might have the same dad as they did, but Lorna had been free to grow up in a more stable family. Lorna didn’t know what it was like to be Magneto’s slave. Wanda had no right to…

The water in the shower fell. Pietro, pushing his silvery hair out of his eyes, straightened his shoulders and left their burnt-smelling bedroom behind, letting himself into the bathroom after her and shutting the door. Anger was clouding his vision as he ripped the blue shower curtain back and scowled at his twin.

Wanda flinched, hands raising — not to cover her body, but to point her weaponized palms at her brother. “Get out,” she warned, sparks dancing between her fingers. He wanted to wince. Lorna and her mutant boyfriend Alex were sleeping just the next bedroom over. The twins couldn't afford to be terribly loud... “Pietro, I mean it!”

Pietro did not get out. He stood and looked at his sister; looked at her strong shoulders and wide hips, the dark hair on her head and between her legs. He studied her heavy breasts with their tiny stretch marks like lightning bolts down the sides, at the way her olive skin was darker where the sun touched her — her arms, her face, her calves. Her belly was soft and round, at odds with the muscle definition in her thick thighs. She was perfectly imperfect, and she was his.

Still meeting Wanda’s eyes, Pietro stripped from his shirt and boxer-briefs, stepped into the shower after her, and closed the curtain. The water pelting them was boiling hot, and he turned his back to it, feeling it slide down his spine and ass, pooling around his feet.

Wanda stared back at him, looking as though she didn’t know whether to hex him, or… what. She didn’t seem like she was about to run, though.

“You want this?” Pietro asked, and there was still anger in his voice from before. They could turn back. They didn’t have to do this to each other, to continue the damage that had been set in motion by an abusive tyrant. How could they come back from this? There was no ‘back.’ There was only onwards, or nothing.

Slowly, she nodded. He couldn’t read her expression, and that scared him more than anything. He should always be able to read her, shouldn’t he? He should always know her thoughts, her heart.

He pressed against her, the hard-soft-hard lines of her body so at odds with anything he’d experienced, and found her mouth, sucking water from her lips and bringing a hand up between her legs again. Let the falling water drown her moans. He rubbed and ground against her clit until she shuddered, quaking a miniature orgasm, and did not wait before pushing her until her butt hit the wall. It was almost an out-of-body experience as he pried her legs open. It felt like something someone else was using his hands to do, that he himself had no control over.

He stepped between her spread thighs and rubbed himself against her, feeling himself slowly harden against her softness for the second time that night. Apparently he _could_ get it up after all. He was young, and friction was friction. He closed his eyes and pushed his face into her hair, breathing in her patchouli scent.

Wanda made a soft sound in her throat that Pietro could not translate — was she upset? Did this make her uncomfortable; remind her of the last time a cock had been between her legs? — before reaching to touch her brother, running a gentle hand down his side, feeling the differences between them. She held his testicles in her hand as though unsure what to do with them, so he showed her; cupping his hand around hers, rolling her palm, rubbing a thumb over the soft skin there. She was a quick student, and soon she was moving off of instinct instead of guidance.

Pietro gripped Wanda’s ass in both hands, massaging it. It was large, heavy, and he liked the feel. Liked even more how her head dropped onto his shoulder, so close to his pierced ear that he could hear the little sips of breath she took when he gripped his cock in one hand, stroking himself from root to tip, pumping his hand a little and then guiding the head of himself inside her heat.

Wanda winced. Did it hurt? It shouldn’t; she felt plenty wet. Girls didn’t need stretching, right? Or did they…?

Pietro stroked her hair. It was good they were so similar in height. “Shh,” he soothed, though she had said nothing. “You’re okay. I’m here.”

She did not respond, but the way her arms linked around his neck was sweet. As was the way she stood on tiptoe, attempting to spread her legs wider. Pietro had only penetrated one other person sexually before, and that person was their father. He saw Magneto’s genes reflected in her now; in her shape, her frame, her strength. In the intensity of her eyes when she opened them again and stared at him like a bird of prey.

He supposed he had to accept it. You could take the Maximoffs away from Magneto, but you could never take him out of them. Not ever. It was their curse; the mortar that held their cells together. When there was no escaping madness, there was only embracing it.

Pietro thrust upwards into his sister, and he heard her gasp.

Oh, it felt good, alright. Much better than fucking his fist; than humping a mattress. She was tight and wet and her internal muscles pulsed around him. And her gasps, her moans — whether of pleasure or pain or some abomination of the two — spurred him on. Guided him in gripping her waist, in pushing into her, in invading her, claiming her.

She was speaking in rapid, hitched Polish now, her breath feverish in his ear. She had held onto the language better than he; clinging to it even while he tried so hard to learn English, lose his accent, become the quintessential American. He never could, of course; never would. Not entirely. The world smelled his origins on him like a smog. But Wanda had never cared what others thought of her, and so she would always be that much freer than her younger brother.

“I want you to rip me open and live inside me,” she whispered, voice stuttering, Polish all sandy vowels that rattled the bones in his ears like no other language could. This was the language of home, and so were Wanda’s warm insides. “I want you to fuck my heart.”

“Did you ever think,” Pietro asked, teeth scraping her wet throat. “That we were meant to be one person? That something got lost when we were made?”

“Do you ever _stop_ thinking that?” Wanda retorted, half laugh, half sigh as she raised a leg, using Pietro’s shoulder for balance as she set her heel in the soap tray, allowing him to climb that much deeper inside her. “I don’t.”

Her nails bit into his hips, drawing blood, and Pietro lost himself to violence, moving faster than a human man could, surely bruising Wanda’s insides as he pounded her. She did not protest, didn’t cry; only sighed and accepted what he gave, like this was her penance to pay; like this was church, and he was her holy communion.

_Catholicism metaphors, Maximoff? Really? You’re Jewish._

Funny, how all forms of incest were explicitly condemned in both bible and Torah, save for fathers with their daughters. That seemed to get a free pass from both, or at the least not be worth mentioning. Maybe Pietro was more of a sinner than his father ever was.

He brought his hand between Wanda’s leg again, rolling the pearl of her clit around with the pad of his thumb in time to his thrusts. She came hard and he felt it; felt her tremble, felt her legs give out. Her foot slipped off the soap tray and for one awful moment he thought they were both going to collapse. Lorna needed to put a shower mat in the tub before someone broke their neck.

He regained their balance and, on a whim, pulled out of Wanda, seeing how red and full his cock had grown from the friction. It stood out at a curved angle from his nest of silver pubic hair. Wanda looked at it, too, and reached to touch, but he slapped her hand away and spun her around, her chest to the wall.

“Pietro,” she said, and he didn’t know if she would ask him to stop or what, so he pushed inside again, taking her from behind. The water was growing tepid against his back. If he wanted to come, he’d have to do it before it became too cold to bear. She bit her wrist to stifle a pained groan.

He should be nicer to her, he knew, but he was still angry from before, and she could take it. It was fine. They would all be fine. And with them positioned like this, he had much more range of movement; could hold on to her wide hips and really _fuck_ her; pistoning his hips and panting onto the back of her neck, where a small colony of freckles lived. He felt his orgasm building low in his stomach; a long-awaited release he knew would drain him into exhaustion. If he could just hit that sweet spot…

Wanda tightened her insides around him, clenching her muscles. She did it twice more before he realized it was intentional; that she was milking him. That she wanted him to come, and therefore stop. Guilt overtook him. How often had he done the same thing to his clients?

… Had she done it to Magneto?

“Wanda…” what was there to say, really? They were past apologies. He kissed her instead; kissed each freckle he could reach and saw the tired way she shifted her legs apart like a draft horse in its stall when he reached for her swollen clit one final time.

“You can come again. I know you can,” he murmured gentle encouragement. He tilted his hand enough that he could slip his pinkie into his sister’s ass, noticing how it made her jolt and clench, grinning at the scarlet sparks it sent crackling along her skin, reflecting in misshapen patches the way sunlight off the surface of a swimming pool might. It was crass, but it got the job done, and they came at nearly the same time; him vibrating fit to burst and her shooting sparks like it was her swan song.

“Tatuś!” she cried, voice echoing off the walls, and even as he emptied himself inside her, his balls drawn tight to his body — God, he just kept coming; spasming, twitching, hips hitching, panting hard against her neck, his weight mashing her pillowy tits to the shower wall, seeing stars — he had to grit his teeth in annoyance. Not because she’d called out a childish name for their father, but that he’d been thinking the same thing.

He grunted and thrust a few more times as he softened, squishing his come inside her body to make her dance and twitch, maybe a little bit as a punishment, but only a little. She bore it, tired and worn out now, and when he pulled out and saw the white of his seed contrast with her brown thigh as it dribbled, he felt sorry for doing it. Childish, even. Maybe they were both childish; babies playing at being grown-ups, bruising each other again and again in a game they could not win. The world saw their bodies as weapons; why shouldn’t they do the same?

Still, if he was just pretending at being a grown-up, he could do it right. He could play at benevolence. “Come here, darling,” he whispered, gentle now that the ache was sated, and turned his sister around, surveying how wrecked her expression was; how fucked-out and dead-dog tired she was now.

 _I did that,_ he realized, and was secretly thrilled that he’d had any impact at all. _I did that to you._

And because he had won, or maybe lost, a game he shouldn’t have played, he was tender as could be while he spread her legs and let the water clear his spunk away; as he bundled her in two towels and dried her off. As he pulled her t-shirt back over her head and escorted her to her bed.

He pulled her burnt blanket back and he tucked her in, and when she reached for him, he bent and kissed her forehead and then her mouth.

“I’m sorry I called out for him,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to.”

Pietro kissed her cheeks, her nose. “It’s okay. I get it.”

He did, really. How could he not? Maybe this was what it meant to be Magneto's child.

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like I should clarify, as sometimes my stuff is misinterpreted, and sometimes I'm not clear enough: The "Pietro did not think he had been raped" line? I, the author, disagree with it. I think what happened to him was also rape. Sometimes narrators are biased.
> 
> Come say hi to me on [my tumblr,](https://arterial-scribblings.tumblr.com/) if you want.


End file.
